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Leaving me here on my own.
— Cruel Summer,
7-11 PARKING LOT,
MONTEZUMA AND COLLEGE
10:32 AM PDT
BIVO WASN’T PICKING UP, so Mick drove a bit. It was ostensibly to look for another pay phone, but more than anything, it was to think about life decisions made that ended up with him pushing George McCRACKEN out a window, George, a guy he’d known since freshman year at State. George, who made him Top Ramen when they were both poor.
So, really, it was no great surprise when he ended up at the 7-11 by San Diego State that’s not more than a long football pass from the dorm where Ray Anne McCRACKEN lived.
Hard to believe twenty years ago this week, Mick was on the main lawn, two hours til next class and checking out an astronomical level of talent strolling by. Amazing girls, and it being the early-80s, they had on the mini-skirts, the Ray-Bans and way too much fluorescent. They had Walkman, too, which is how Mick came to be acquainted with George Donovan McCracken.
George was a skinny kid parked on the grass near Mick; for ten minutes, they watched the girls go by, calling out ratings on a scale of 1-to-10 for those of particular merit. Sure, not every girl was hot, but coming from where Mick did, Castle Park High, it was something, and a good many girls wore Walkman that sometimes wonder what girls of particular merit might be listening to.
That’s what sucked Mick in, when the skinny kid said of a particularly hot little blonde in a go-go boots and headphones, “Bet I can guess who she’s listening to.”
Mick studied the blonde in Ray-Bans, white lipstick and a bright pink AGO’s HAVE SPIRIT! t-shirt.
Mick said, “Smiths, Bangles or Oingo Boingo. Maybe Bob Marley.”
“No way. Gotta be more bouncy. Sorority girls like to dance.”
“You can’t dance to reggae?”
“Yeah, but look at the way she’s walking. I bet you it’s something like Dead or Alive. You Spin Me Round?”
“Bullshit. Dead or Alive sucks. That guy’s a fag.”
“Yeah, but chicks dig it. In fact, I’ll bet you twenty bucks she’s listening to either Dead or Alive or the Cult.”
So Mick took the bet and lost, when it turned out to be Sweet Soul Sister, but won when it turned out to be George’s older sister in the headphones because George was the one caught Mick and his sister in the back of the bus on the Tecate trip.
Now, out front the 7-11, Mick pulled a rumpled piece of paper from his wallet upon which were roughly thirty cell-phone numbers, half crossed out and the other half terminating at Bivo’s batch of unused disposable cell-phones; Bivo would use a phone once before sending Rony or Dmitri to sell them to the gang-bangers at Norcestor and Imperial for twenty bucks a pop.
Mick dialed the first uncrossed number, drawing a line through it as he listened to the phone ring. On the fourth ring, Bivo’s suspicious voice: “Who is this?”
“It’s me,” Mick said, watching a girl go by looked 15 at the most and wore a backpack and not a Walkman but an Ipod. “Mij Poopikov’s dead?”
“I’m surprised he lived this long. I also not happy I have to hear this from Jimmy Francisco. All the money I pay, I should be told before a malakas carpet cleaner.”
“Wait a minute, Jimmy Francisco’s outta prison?”
“Now he’s a carpet cleaner now who asks policeman questions about his girlfriend again, about that carpet. They found the same carpet on Mij. So what, she was probably that fat fuck Mij. Besides, who cares? I say, is the past. Let it go.”
That wasn’t likely. Mick knew Jimmy from their days playing in a cover-band, the RedHearts, and he’d kept in touch when Jimmy got his new band together and while auditioning singers, Jimmy fell in love with a girl fresh from Baltimore, a beautiful soul singer named Evie Chambers.
“If Jimmy Francisco’s showing up at your door, cops can’t be far behind.”
“Jimmy says the mud-tracker is coming. Is okay,” Bivo said, “I got the lawyers. That cowboy mudtracker and his ape friend can’t do anything in front of the lawyers.”
“The Mexican tortured him. He would have killed him if Mij hadn’t escaped— You don’t think that’s gonna be a problem.”
“Why should it, we did not kill him. The American justice system will protect us. That and eight Jew lawyers. Rony and Dmitri going to talk to the Mexican, see if he knows anything, but this is not the problem I am worried about right now. So give me good news, tell me you find the pictures?”
“All but one. I’m on my way to get it, a house in Golden Hill.”
“It is of the highest importance you get the picture. If it fell into the Western Sub-Regional committee hands, I would be very very angry. And you know what the doctor said about when I get angry, it very unhealthy.”
Especially for those around you.
“Okay,” Bivo concluded, “you call me when you done. I want you to help me with my songlist, talk about the La Vida Loca or maybe the King. Is very important, okay?”
BEFORE MAKING FOR GOLDEN HILL, Mick parked in the shade beneath a eucalyptus in Aztec Hall’s Visitor Parking and tucking an envelope into the pocket of his jacket, headed towards Aztec Hall.
It was pleasant walking the path to the main residence hall, past the bike-racks and the kids lounging on the grass, not a care in the world, same way Mick’d been what seemed like ages ago, in the innocent times before he lost his way and killed a man.
The mail slots were still where Mick remembered them, on the first floor of Aztec Hall. He found one marked McCRACKEN, R.A. and, using a hanky, slipped into her slot the envelope containing the ten thousand he’d taken from George’s safe. Then, without pause, he started back to the car.
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